I love buying pretty things for my flat. It’s equal to clothing hunting. I saw a beautiful carafe in Habitat the other day and had to buy the glass poury thing. It looked like something from a beautiful hazy morning vision of my dreams. I nearly have the vision perfected in our bedroom. It’s either blue and cream or orangey and misty, depending on the time and pendulum of mood. The constant draft from our single glazed windows in our Georgian flat creates a small billow in the long, sheer curtains, adding a certain mystical waft to the room as the colour shapes its feel. Whilst night is more broody, the morning tends to be a fresh but night rested swirl of cream and light blues, the cotton flows and sinks and sumptuously languishes on our (slightly too small) heavenly bed. The smell of night’s time, morning and new air floats with potential. I felt most grown up to add a carafe to our bedside table (singular – must find another one) collection of items. I enjoy pouring a glass of water in the morning as I consider. As the liquid pours in my mind I am sophisticated and in control of the clock.
I recently read One Day by David Nicholls, in one day (one of those). The story centers on two people who grow up together, apart, in love and in chaos from 15th July 1988 (graduation) to 15th July 2007 (…). The influence on one person and one day.
Here Emma Morley, one of the protagonists, is 27:
“Emma Morley eats well and drinks in moderation. These days she gets eight good hours sleep then wakes promptly of her own accord at just before six-thirty and drinks a large glass of water, the first 250ml of a daily 1.5 litres, which she pours from the brand new carafe and matching glass that stand in a shaft of fresh morning sunlight next to her warm, clean double bed. A carafe. She owns a carafe. She can hardly believe it’s true.
“She owns furniture too. At twenty-seven she is too old to live like a student anymore, and now she owns a bed, a large wrought iron and wickerwork affair bought in the summer sales from colonial-themed store on Tottenham Court Road. Branded the ‘Tahiti’ it occupies the whole bedroom of her flat off the Earls Court Road. The duvet is goosedown, the sheets are Egyptian cotton which is, the saleswoman informed her, the very best cotton known to man, and all of this signifies a new era of order, independence and maturity. On Sunday mornings she lounges alone on the Tahiti as if it were a raft, and listens to Porgy and Bees and Mazzy Star, old Tom Waits and a quaintly crackling vinyl album of Bach’s Cello Suites. She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive note books. Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be s love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationary.”